


Can't Begin to Say (But She Tries remix)

by bell (bellaboo), bellaboo, usomitai (bellaboo)



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen, Remix, Remix Duello 2010
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-10
Updated: 2010-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-12 13:51:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/125549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellaboo/pseuds/bell, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellaboo/pseuds/bellaboo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellaboo/pseuds/usomitai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caring for the living is harder than for the dying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Begin to Say (But She Tries remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [althusserarien (ArmchairElvis)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArmchairElvis/gifts).
  * Inspired by [He Tries To Speak (And Can't Begin To Say)](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/1634) by joe_pike_junior. 



> Zulu stood by me as I worked through this remix and beta'ed for me multiple times! She is the best.

It's déjà-vu. Allison has spent most of her adult life in hospitals, but the hours she spends with Wilson can only be compared to those last months with Steven. She and Wilson aren't lovers, not even close, but neither were she and Steven at the end. And so much is the same. She reads restaurant reviews in the Star-Ledger out loud and discusses his feelings every step of the way. When Wilson drifts off in the middle of a sentence, Allison glances out the window and is startled that day has become night.

Robert stays up past two AM for her, watching TV with his feet on the table and arms slung back on the couch. "Wasted another evening?" he asks her, but he never suggests she shouldn't visit Wilson. It didn't work all the other times she decided to stand vigil for dying patients, and Allison supposes he knows better by now. Maybe he knows it won't be for long. Robert isn't wholly heartless: the care packages are his idea. Allison read in Cosmopolitan once about staying close by sharing a hobby. It seems a frail thread, but still she thanks and kisses him when he brings in another batch of Ruffles and M&Ms. She pretends to not notice the porn he also sneaks into the packages.

House needs care too. He's losing his best friend. But Allison can't help. Or won't; it amounts to the same thing. She tried that already, when she was working for him. He turned her down, over and over. Allison's learned her lesson. Robert would get jealous and that's too big a pain to deal with. So she lets House wander the Princeton-Plainsboro halls paler than even Wilson. She lets Cuddy try to pick up the pieces of that mess. It hurts, but what else can she do?

Maybe helping Wilson is how she can help House. Her company must have a cumulative effect, ripples spreading across social chains. If she traced out the consequences, perhaps her charity would find its way back to her in a new and different form, like a message transformed in a game of telephone.

Surely reaching out to more people is the right thing to do.

Inspired, Allison looks for Foreman. He's reading in the rec room, like he has been most mornings this past month. "I just feel bad for House," he says. He adds after a pause, "And for me."

Allison rolls her eyes. If anything, Foreman has less work, with Cuddy passing fewer cases House's way. But she's determined to get good out of this exchange, even if it's just to have Foreman help out too. "You owe me." He always would: she fought for his life after he tried to infect her in his desperation.

"So what?" Foreman asked, eyebrows raising.

"Do something for Wilson."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Anything. Make him a CD, for all I care."

He takes it literally. Then again, Foreman never did like to get involved. He can't possibly be unaffected, but that's Foreman for you. He could wear callousness like a shield all he liked, but his bottled-up guilt and grief would have to come out eventually. Just not, it seemed, to Allison.

Allison tries Taub next, but he just shrugs. "I don't really know Wilson." Her frustration must show because he says apologetically, "Sorry. I just--he's my boss's friend. It's not as if we have a relationship." Unlike Foreman, though, Taub owes her no favors. She can't make him do anything.

She'd prod Kutner, but he goes to see Wilson about as often as she does, bringing DVDs and Marvel comics. They talk about it over coffee in the cafeteria. "It sucks," Kutner says. "But that's the deal. You live, you die."

Allison sits up straighter. "Yeah, I guess so." It's the most mature response she's heard to Wilson's death. What else is there to say? Kutner needs no help. He's doing better than she is.

Thirteen visits Wilson somewhat regularly, which surprises Allison. The time she tried to ask about her Huntington's, Thirteen told her to fuck off. What is she doing with Wilson, staring death in the face? Feeling better that someone is sicker than her? Allison doesn't know and can't ask.

As for Cuddy, House actually lets her take care of him. Allison's watched as Cuddy touches House's shoulder on his way out of the hospital, their lips moving in words she's too far away to hear. Something bitter and heavy stirs in her; he needs so much more than a hand to his shoulder. But her opinion doesn't count.

It can't be easy on Cuddy either. Taking care of House is no small task. Cuddy may be working the same hours and seeing as many patients as before, but Allison sees the strain. Her laugh has been just a bit louder, her makeup a shade brighter. She too, after all, is losing a friend.

Indeed, when Allison runs into her on her way to Wilson's, Cuddy's cheerful façade fades for a moment. "How is he?" Cuddy asks, not pretending to smile.

"How are you?" Allison replies, trying to be gentle.

But Cuddy shakes her head. "If I started, I'd never stop."

Caring for the living is harder than for the dying.

*

Wilson barely speaks anymore. Allison tries to make up for it, reading through the entire New Yorker and telling him about her day in the ER. She doesn't know which depresses her more to tell him: the impossible cases or the ones where there's still hope. Wilson reacts the same to both, shifting listlessly. He doesn't really seem to hear.

But he doesn't tell her to leave. Instead he asks, "What was it like to lose your husband?"

Allison hesitates. The answer isn't static; it changes with the seasons. Winter's bareness makes her ache sharper, while bright green leaves bring back the memories of Steven's May funeral. It hurts, always. Just in different ways. And it feels good too. Wilson must know the relief of looking back and knowing he'd made a difference. That someone had depended on him. But there is guilt, too, that her worth must come in decay.

He's on the verge of sleep, his eyes fluttering. Wilson won't want to hear all these thoughts. He must be thinking of his friends, leaving scars that he won't be around to heal. "It hurt," she says before Wilson's eyes close for good. "But time helped."


End file.
